In the deep South, I have become familiar with barbeque, bourbon, banana pudding and long strolls down memory lane. Geography does lend itself to a sampling of life that may not be directly outside your doorstep at home, and this was one of those tastes. The humor and dialect brought smiles to Christine and I knowing we both felt part of a play, a perfect script for a Thursday night after a day of planes, trains, and automobiles. Having spent the early part of the week in business meetings then flying to Augusta, Georgia, I was clearing my mind, slowing down for my entry into relaxation, and as usual found it down here. Last night, friends and family stood in the kitchen or sat in the perimeter chairs sampling barbeque pork, beef, hash, ribs, and chicken. We drank bourbon of all the different brands in the house and talked until we couldn’t talk anymore. That is until the banana pudding made an appearance. One scoop led to another and before anyone had a chance to fill up with ice and more bourbon the silence of enjoyment ensued. It was so damn good. None of that canned or boxed mix. This was vanilla wafers in homemade banana pudding with a light homemade whipped cream on top. For me bedtime was now a fixture of my imagination. It was time to sit and digest. It was time for most everyone to leave except for homeowner and poetry partner Professor John Presley, young Dylan fresh from his MFA at the Writer’s Foundry, Saint Joseph’s College in Brooklyn, New York, and John’s wife Kathrine. We talked for a good hour or more about everything literature. Poems were quoted, movie lines spoke, and books discussed; from the Sound and the Fury through Emily Dickinson and onto Melville, the rapture of the evening was worth waiting for. We joked about being back in undergrad during one of those nights everyone had smoked too much dope or drank copious amounts of beer and rambled on into the next morning. Creativity does find itself emanating from strange places, but around a kitchen landing of barbeque, bourbon, banana pudding and pedantic writers, what else would you expect?